


Rassilon Had Nothing to Do With It

by planet_p



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chameleon Arch, F/M, Historical Roleplay, Out of Character, Post-Episode: s08e12 Death in Heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planet_p/pseuds/planet_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Alternate Universe - Out of Character – Set After “Death in Heaven” - Clara/Twelve]</p><p>Clara and the Doctor must investigate the strange goings-on at a wealthy man’s mansion. The twist: The Doctor has used the Chameleon Arch to become human and has no idea he’s investigating anything, and Clara has been forbidden from doing any investigating of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rassilon Had Nothing to Do With It

1

A cold breeze scurries across the vast, open yard of the master’s house, sending fallen leaves scuttling and cartwheeling. Overhead, the skies are heavy and grey. Clara pauses in her duties to feel the cold wind wrap around her, embracing her as an old friend might, and she breathes a shaky sigh. Soon, the days will grow colder and the snow will fall, but that day is not today.

The breeze dies down again and she brushes her braid off her shoulder, picks up her skirts and turns and heads back into the mansion.

.

The world moves with an unrelentingly slow pace, day following day as the tasks follow one after the other. When one is completed, there are always more waiting. The work is monotonous, and often laborious, but Clara doesn’t complain. Instead, she draws a sobering breath of air and forges on, day after day, and time marches on.

.

One day, as she has just finished sweeping the floor of the entryway clear, a man passes by and she can’t help from pushing back her braid and straightening her back to watch him go, her gaze following his every step, a hand pressed into the small of her back where it is particularly achy.

She is sweaty and unkempt from a morning’s worth of hard work, and more itchy than she cares to acknowledge, but she is no fool. She holds her tongue and keeps her silence, content to merely watch. And then the man does something strange. He pauses and turns back to cast a glance in her direction.

Her heart stutters in her chest and the broom slips from her trembling grasp, landing with a loud clatter on the floor. She tears her eyes away from the man’s and follows it down, scooping it up and hastily making her leave, her heart pounding much too furiously.

The man doesn’t follow her and she stands, back pressed to the door of her cleaning cupboard, and breathes. She’s shaking from head to toe but her braid is just fine. She breathes deeply to compose herself and hustles across the cupboard, leaving the broom in its proper place while she sets about collecting up several bottles of cleaning product for her next task.

She is only slightly proud of herself, and very, very sad. She misses her friend.

.

On another such day, she is tidying the master’s study when there is a brief knock on the door. Busy with the task at hand, crouched under the desk and having considerable trouble removing the gum the master’s children have no doubt left there, she doesn’t have the time to reply before the door is pushed open and someone enters.

Hoping it isn’t one of the children up to mischief, she moves too quickly and bangs her head on the desk. She discards the painful sensation almost at once and stands, her fingers aching horribly as she clutches her skirt. She is all ready to send the young person out once more, with a stern reprimand, no doubt, when she sees that it is no child who has entered the master’s study.

It’s the man.

She drops her eyes at once, unsure how to speak. The master was very specific on the terms of her employ. She is the help, nothing more, and she must not entertain ideas above her station. She must do her job, always, and nothing more.

For too long, she stands staring at her shoes, at the length of her skirt still clutched in her tired hands, shaking only slightly, and the man remains likewise: unmoving, silent. Her heart aches. He cannot see her, cannot see that they were once friends. He no longer knows her.

She drops into a curtsy, keeping her face bowed. “Sir.”

There is a pause of several moments before he replies, all too plainly, “Miss.” And then there is silence.

The quiet is only broken when the master arrives, barely noticing her at all once he has barked his orders to her and she has scurried to follow his every command.

She exits, in dire need of a strong, sweet cup of tea, and perhaps a few biscuits.

.

Jalia is nineteen and normally a strong, proud young woman, but today she is crying. Crumpled in the corner of their shared room, she is an absolute mess. Her face is puffy from her tears and Clara can see she is shaking. On the floor beside her sits her mobile phone, its screen dark.

Clara strides to the girl’s side and kneels down before her. She seeks the girl’s red-rimmed eyes with her own and speaks to her gently, kindly. Soon the words are tumbling out of Jalia like a babbling brook across stones smooth from the passage of time and the water’s steady, unrelenting progress over the years. Her boyfriend has just dumped her and her life is in a right tatter. She tried her hardest to explain the situation to him but he didn’t care. He didn’t care that she needed the money, he has always had money, he comes from a well-to-do family and she comes from nothing, in comparison. She cries because she loves him and he yelled at her, accusing her of messing him around. He called her cruel and sick, and he’s never going to speak to her ever again. And she knows he wasn’t just messing, she knows he means it.

Clara pulls the girl into her arms and holds her, stroking her beautiful dark hair carefully. Wordlessly, she scoops Jalia’s mobile up and stows it in her pocket. The master was very clear about such devices and Clara would not like to see Jalia fired because she missed her loved one and risked a chance to speak with him again.

She pets the girl’s hair and tries not to ponder too hard on what the Doctor might be doing for the master. Something, she is sure, that requires a certain aptitude in the sciences, but beyond that she hasn’t the faintest clue. It’s probably best that way, though. She would hate to blow the Doctor’s cover after everything he did to get them in here in the first place. After everything they’ve both had to do to make it this far.

This is not, she reminds herself, going to be a repeat of Sweetville. There will be no deviation from the plan, no rash action. No troublesome questions. In time, the truth will reveal itself to them, all they need do is wait.

She is prepared to do that.

She pushes her braid back over her shoulder and speaks to Jalia softly, slowly coaxing the distraught girl back to her feet, and sometime later they both go back to work. If anybody has noticed their absence, nothing is made of it.

Clara’s body aches, and that is normal. That is every day.

.

Not too many days later, Jalia comes to her to explain that she is leaving and Clara merely nods, her expression understanding. Inside, she is upset. She doesn’t know what Jalia intends to do now, if her boyfriend, Henry, has agreed to take her back, but she knows that whatever the case, she is now friendless.

When Mona comes to take Jalia’s place, she does not indulge in small talk nor does she hum quietly late at night when she can’t sleep. She does her job and nothing more. When she looks at Mona, Clara can see herself. That is her now. Cold. The knowledge is unsurprisingly painful.

Once or twice, the children come to investigate this new edition to the household. Then they get bored and think to trifle with her. Mona has no qualms about telling them off. Clara, when she sees this, bites her tongue and stays out of it and the children go away, bored again.

When they came to bother her, she ignored them and did her job. They barely even saw her after that. She is the invisible girl now. She disappears a little more each day.

* * *

2

Most days, Clara works alone. Most days, she works hard, pushing herself that little bit further just to dispel the boredom and horror of what she has become. She no longer reads and she hasn’t heard the sound of music in what must be weeks, maybe even months. She is rotting away within these four walls and there is not a single thing she can do to fight. She must keep on working, day after day.

At night, she dreams that she might just die this way, but she never lets herself cry. She can’t risk waking Mona.

On a frosty Monday in December, nearing on Christmas, she slips and cuts her hand. It is an unwanted complication and it sours her mood considerably. She does her best to stem the flow of blood, biting down on the pain so that she can safely return her working materials to her cleaning cupboard, then she finds her way to the master’s study to explain what happened.

The master is displeased but he sends her for medical attention all the same. She can’t believe how stupid she’s been, and she’s starting to lose feeling in her fingers. Her good hand feels weak, ready to relinquish its hold on her bloody one at any time, and she puts some sprightly into her steps but not so much haste that she trips on her hems. She really can’t abide, nor afford, another injury.

She arrives at the room the master directed her to and stands before the door, wondering if she should knock or call out, and knowing that if she chooses to knock it’s going to be ineloquent and painful.

She glances determinately at the floor and raises her voice, awkwardly. “Excuse me.”

Nothing.

Feeling quite stupid, she tries again, raising her voice a bit more. “Excuse me!” Her stomach twists while she waits and she is about to call out a third time when the door opens and there is the Doctor, frowning and peering at her with moderate alarm. No doubt, he’s seen the blood, or perhaps it’s just her hair in a frightful state.

She quickly holds her bloody hand out, still clutching it tightly in her uninjured hand, and peers at the floor. “Apologies, sir, I seem to have had an accident.”

“Yes, I can see that. Come inside. Quickly now. There’s no sense in dawdling, is there?”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, yes.”

Lifting her gaze from her boots, she is slightly under-whelmed to see that the room appears much the same as the master’s study, and it holds even fewer clues. Not that she is looking for any. She hurries to sit in the chair she is wordlessly directed to and gulps down a big breath. In a way, she is relieved. Here they are then, together again. In another way, she is terrified. The urge to leap to her feet and ran to the Doctor and envelop him in her arms is terrifyingly strong but she stays perfectly still. She should not want to upset him, after all, lest he complain to the master about her.

She breathes deeply and reminds herself that he is not her friend. Her friend is not here. Her friend is sleeping. He can’t help her now.

“You’re looking rather suspicious, my dear,” he says, abruptly too close at hand, and she feels a stab of fear. Suspicious? Surely not!

She sucks in a deep breath in effort to control herself. It would not do to panic now.

“My dear, you must look at me. Can you hear me?”

She can’t think; the pain in her hand is suddenly overwhelming, and so, so strong. Breathing is both a battle and a relief. His eyes watch her intently but she can’t think about that right now. She can’t think about him at all. He is not her Doctor.

He lifts her chin with the backs of his fingers and she jerks abruptly at the contact, her eyes wild and so very wide. He stares at her, right into her face, and she forces herself to hear his words.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

She immediately offers her bloody hand once more, trembling ever so slightly all over. “Fix it please, doctor.”

He frowns, breath arrested, and then he nods. He will fix it for her, but he can’t guarantee there won’t be pain. She tunes his words out because they hurt more than her hand ever could.

.

She wakes early on Tuesday and sits alone to eat her breakfast. Later, she is passing the master’s study when she is surprised to hear Mona’s voice coming from within, followed swiftly by laughter. “She’s a little fool!”

“She is a queer thing, I’ll give you that,” the master returns. “Never quite looking anyone in the eye and always so reserved. I might even say uptight.”

Anger washes over her when Clara realizes they’re talking about her and she swallows it down and goes on her way. If she doesn’t see Mona, or hear her voice for the rest of the day, she will be very happy indeed.

Thinking about it as she works, it stings all the more that the master had agreed with Mona. Perhaps he’s looking to get into her pants, though. He might even have had designs on her, in the beginning, before he discovered just how “uptight” she was.

Clara tries not to let it bother her, but damn it, if it’s not one thing it’s another. If she’s pretty then she must be shallow or unintelligent. If she’s quiet then she must be strange and untrustworthy. But, of course, none of this really matters when all you’re looking for is a bit of fun on the side; something to break the boredom and offer a little morale boost, remind the master of the house that he is the master, and he holds all the cards.

Well, she is not going to buy into that. Mona can go for her life, if that’s her sort of thing, but it just makes Clara uneasy. And that, she thinks, is not because she’s uptight. She isn’t; that’s just not true. But sex is personal, too personal to be handing out to just anybody, any odd stranger.

Laying in bed at night, it niggles at her. Well perhaps she is a _little_ uptight, in a good way.

She closes her eyes to dispel that unpleasant thought and she recalls the words of Marina, another teacher from Coal Hill School. Some people gave everything away and expected nothing in return, some people gave a little and expected a lot, and some people refused to give even one single thought to anything outside of themselves and their own predicament. Personally, she did think that young people as a whole tended to give away too much without really considering what they were giving, in regards to sex, but you were only young once, right? And if you never gave anything you’d never know what you might get in return, because it wasn’t _all_ bad. And then there were the control freaks. Nobody wanted to know those types, to be sure. The idea of giving likely didn’t even exist for them, the idea that you couldn’t control the entire universe and that sometimes things just happened, for the good and sometimes for the bad, and that despite it all, that was life.

Tears sting in Clara’s eyes but she holds them back, refusing to cry even one tear. She is, after all, a control freak. Life is supposed to be her oyster; it’s not supposed to stomp all over her like this. It really isn’t.

Then again, this is life, as Marina would say. And perhaps she needs to learn to live, rather than merely looking for the wonders and doing her best to ignore all else. She always runs away when it gets to be too much, too boring or too anything she just cannot abide. She never hesitates to act then, to put her world to rights, but in the process, as Marina would have it, she misses out on so much.

So much of what?! Clara wants to sob. I do my best. I am out there, I put myself out there. I help people. I make people smile, and I smile. I am alive. I could be more selfish, more awful, I’m certain, but I don’t want to be. I want to be good. I want people to look at me and see somebody good, somebody who cares, not somebody who just gets by, day by day, never really thinking. Only wanting. I am not a zombie! I will not be a zombie!

People see what they want to see, Marina would say. Meanwhile, you go about your life under a cloud of misery you refuse to acknowledge. It doesn’t exist, you say. It’s not real, you say. I’m happy, you say. It’s just that I’m not that person. I’m a good person, you see.

“I am a good person!” Clara whispers defiantly and rolls over so she can bury her face in her pillow, muffling her quiet sobs.

She doesn’t dare whisper the words that ache to leave her throat – I don’t want to do this anymore!

.

Wednesday is a disaster. The master is throwing an impromptu party for some surprise guests and Clara is unceremoniously omitted from proceedings. In fact, the master comes to tell her himself as she is mopping the floor: she is to occupy herself with other duties today, and to stay out of the way. That means no more mopping.

The children are nowhere to be found and Clara can’t help feeling relieved. The master has been so very strange of late and the strangeness doesn’t look to be letting up any time soon. She doesn’t know if Mona has been told the same thing she has, but she isn’t at liberty to give a damn. Instead, she is escorted back to her cleaning cupboard and then off to her room before receiving a repeat of her earlier instructions, as if she’s deaf or stupid.

She lays down on her bed in her work clothing and finally drifts into uneasy slumber. When she wakes, she feels too hot and horribly hungry. She ignores the hunger and strokes her injured hand for a few moments.

Her feet slide off the bed and touch the floor. Before she can convince herself that it’s really a very bad idea, she slips out of bed and returns to her cleaning cupboard. She makes no stops along the way and her stomach continues to rumble, screaming about being hungry. She can’t do anything about that, though.

In the cleaning cupboard, she turns bottles around to read the labels. Anything so long as it’s readable. She’s read about twenty such bottles, each one as horrifying and luridly boring as the next, when the door to her cupboard is pulled open and she freezes, doused in horror that is cold as ice.

A second later, the Doctor stumbles into the room and closes the door with a quiet snap, turning his back to her and resting his head against the door heavily. He sighs, sounding as tired as she feels. “Thank Rassilon,” he mumbles, to himself.

Clara doesn’t move. He is so close, yet so far away. She should have asked. She should have asked before, asked why here – what was the catch? She didn’t even think to ask.

The Doctor slides down the door, crouching on the floor and wrapping his arms around himself.

Clara is physically disturbed. It is a struggle to remain still, not to go to him and ask what she can do, however she can help, anything. Her heart pounds heavily in her chest and she realizes she’s breathing too fast.

The Doctor stands abruptly and swings around, his eyes landing on hers.

She steps back too quickly and clumsily knocks into a shelf. Nothing tumbles out onto the floor but she doesn’t even care. He’s staring at her. “I…”

“I do apologize,” he breathes.

She takes a step toward him, he takes one toward her. Neither of them looks away. Two more steps and they are standing a mere whisper apart. He looks at her as if she is a vision, some strange and compelling mirage. Both achingly familiar and terribly alien. She stays absolutely still while he drinks in the sight of her, no doubt taking her measure. Soon he will back away and declare she is too much trouble, eyes wide in alarm and a hiss of “Control freak!” dropping from his lips. She has the real urge to cry.

He moves abruptly, erratically, walking around her to appraise her from all sides before coming to stand in front of her once more. “I know you,” he whispers, as if it is some great secret just between the two of them.

She wants to cry. “Yes,” she whispers back.

“I’ve seen you before.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Yes.”

He frowns, clearly agitated. He tries a different tack. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she replies, with tears in her eyes. Her heart is crying too.

“My name is John Smith. Do you have a name?” He waits, expression guarded, perhaps fearing the worst.

She almost whispers, I’m not a robot. Her heart feels as though it’s breaking in two. A small smile works its way onto her face, lifting her mouth sadly. “Clara.”

“Clara,” he repeats in wonder.

She actually sobs.

“Oh no, no… Clara,” he presses a hand against his chest, over his heart, “I…” But he can’t do it, the tears are already streaming down her face and they hurt to look at, the thought of what they must mean, what they might mean. He has to look away, still trying to make some sense of his unusual predicament.

She slowly brings her arms around him and holds him while she sobs silently, her whole body shaking. He doesn’t hold her back but neither does he push her away and she rests her head against his chest to feel his one heart, only crying harder.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to do,” he breathes, much later.

“You don’t have to do anything. Not one thing.”

There is a moment of silence. She sniffs, figuring she’s just blown everything. Even if he doesn’t realize it quite yet, she’s just thrown all their hard work to the four winds with merry ease, laughing manically all the while.

She starts on crying again and bites down on her finger to keep the wretched sobbing locked up tight.

“I think I want to,” he says, not a moment later, quietly stepping apart from her to remove her hand from her mouth, appearing mildly concerned. Her hand has not yet fully healed and it will not for some time. It needs care and respect, not a sad girl gnawing at it.

He lifts her chin so that she is looking into his eyes and thinks very, very hard. And then, very slowly, he moves his hand to cup her cheek. She trembles and the tears in her eyes quiver ever so delicately, a perfect mirror to her feelings. “Are you looking for something, Clara?” His breath brushes across her skin, bringing more trembling.

“No.”

His hand leaves her face. He steps away and bumps into the closed door. “You must be hungry. Wait here. I shall return.”

When he leaves, she merely sits down on the floor and waits, just as he said. She is happy here. There is nowhere else she’d rather be, in that moment.

.

They eat in silence – cheese sandwiches and tomato salad – but Clara couldn’t be happier. She stopped crying a while ago, thank goodness, and now she’s hoping she hasn’t messed up quite as monumentally as she thought she must have done. Perhaps she can go back to cleaning and he can go back to his thing and they’ll figure this thing out in time; make everything right again, or as much as they can with their simple human capabilities.

She doesn’t try to touch the Doctor again but she does thank him in an appropriately subdued tone and there’s even a small smile and he manages to hold on and not look away. Then, all too soon, it’s time to leave and they go their separate ways.

Leaving her cupboard, Clara smiles, picks up her skirt and goes on her way.

* * *

3

Christmas comes and goes, and soon it is a new year. Clara works diligently and does her best to leave Mona to her own affairs. Indeed, if she hears her chatting with the master or catches a glimpse of them together in the kitchen, she does not linger. She goes back to her work and, occasionally crossing paths with the Doctor now and again, their eyes meet for an instant and she can smile about it afterward. She is no longer alone, and there is music again. When she is alone, she hums every song she can remember, beginning with her favorites first. One day, she is even stunned to discover she has begun to sing quietly. The idea makes her giggle and blush, but she is secretly pleased.

Often, people will come and go from the house. The master’s clients or friends. Sometimes they are both. She is never involved in these affairs, however, so she hasn’t the first idea what it might be that the master actually does for a living, but suffice to say it must pay well, to keep such a home. Whenever the master throws a party, such as the one before Christmas, she is excluded from proceedings. To her disappointment, the Doctor no longer comes to visit her in her cupboard and she decides she must be pleased; it must mean he is making some progress toward solving this mystery and making things right.

She sits in her cupboard, out of everyone’s way, and braids and unbraids her hair. The weather is warming some now that it approaches spring and she looks forward to many long walks in the grounds, with the master’s permission, of course. The children may even invite her out, as they had once before, though only because they’d needed someone to throw snowballs at in truth. She hadn’t fallen for that trick twice. Still, they had had hot chocolate afterward, with those nice mini marshmallows, and that had more than made up for the whole horrible thing.

She is just getting ready to braid her hair once more after brushing it quite thoroughly when the door to her cupboard opens and she looks up to see the Doctor standing in the door. When she offers no objection, he steps inside and closes the door after him but stays where he is, as quiet as a mouse.

She stands up and her stomach feels a little odd. It is, she supposes, her hair. It is no longer contained in its pacifying, prim braid, and there is a man in the room. A man who may judge her, or make assumptions after her intentions because her hair is free. She very much hopes it will go unnoticed, as it always seemed to before, and surely he has more pressing matters upon his mind given the look in his eyes.

She walks to him and stops, feeling awkward all over again. “Are you feeling well, Mr. Smith?”

He frowns more deeply, almost pained, and her stomach twists. No, clearly he is not feeling well. Something that happened at the party, perhaps? He cuts his gaze away, to the wall, and she sees there are tears in his eyes.

Now she doesn’t know what to say, what to do. It isn’t as though she can just hug him. That would be very bad, and it wouldn’t make him feel better, not really. It is a measured thing, a game he must play with himself. Is today a good day? Well, we shall see, I suppose. But today is not one of those good days and his misty blue eyes are all the evidence she needs.

She stands with him, peering down at her shoes without really seeing them, hands clasped neatly in front of her, and she doesn’t know what to do. She is genuinely confounded.

“Are you hungry, sir?” she asks, tucking the uncertainty she feels safely out of sight.

His response is automatic; there’s barely a thought to it. “Not today, Miss Clara.”

She is a little sad then, remembering Danny, but she pushes through the feeling. Danny is safe now, and he is so very loved. Danny would not want her to worry for him, he would want her to live. She has been living for so long now, so long without him by her side, and she will go on living.

“What can I do?”

The Doctor sighs raggedly, the graveness in his expression giving evidence to just how tired he is. He glances around, meeting her eyes. “Clara.”

“Yes, Mr. Smith.”

“I…” He brushes a hand across his face, aggrieved. His hand is shaking slightly and he lowers it once more.

Clara reaches for his hand and gives it the barest of touches, looking carefully, deeply into his eyes. He will tell her when he is ready.

He flinches at the contact but takes her hand in his, holding it as if it might be the thing to save him from drowning. “My Clara,” he breathes.

She smiles painfully and her heart beats heavier in her chest. He will tell her, if she just waits, if she is very patient. “I’m here, John.”

He can barely look at her and has stopped seeing her, relying instead on the feeling of her hand in his, but she won’t let that shake her. He works through an agonizing frown and settles for standing straighter. He looks into her wide, brown eyes. “Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to ask that you might spend the night with me?”

Her heart falters in her chest and her eyes feel simply huge but she stops and thinks. She really needs to think before she speaks because if she says the wrong thing he may never speak to her again, and that would simply kill her.

She reaches for his hand and holds it in both of her hands, gazing back at him with earnest, tender eyes. “I believe, sir, that I have come to care for you in my own way, as you have come to care for me in much the same way.”

“Yes, I do care for you, Clara,” he says, his tone giving nothing away.

She drops his hand and steps closer, raising her hand to his face and settling it upon his cheek with care. “Ask me again,” she whispers.

His eyes glisten with unshed tears and she sees the exact moment he grows cold to her. He slowly reaches up and removes her hand from his face and her heart breaks all over again. So many times and all at once.

Full of unbearable love and fear, she closes the distance between them and presses a tiny, trembling kiss against his mouth. For a heart-stopping moment, she knows that she has just doomed their soft, new friendship, and then he is kissing her back and his kisses taste like tears and home.

.

They walk through the house hand in hand, unhurried. They travel through corridors she knows she should not be in – and if the master were to catch sight of her! – but she is not afraid. They are together and now nothing can hurt her, or frighten her more. She is very frightened, and at the same time she is all too willing. It is an odd feeling, and yet she is… happy, perhaps even excited.

They stop at the door to the Doctor’s room and she takes her hand out of his slowly. She presses a gentle kiss upon his mouth so he’ll know she hasn’t changed her mind and he surprises her by scooping her into his arms to carry her over the threshold to the bed. He lays her down on the bed softly and she is smiling a big, bright smile.

He goes back to shut the door and she takes the time to consider if she’s really going to go through with this. What if he hates her for it later, when he’s no longer human anymore? What if she hates herself just as much?

All of the thoughts zipping through her head at warp speed are dizzying and she lays back on the bed and closes her eyes. There is a weight on the mattress when he sits down a short while later but he makes no move to touch her. After a lengthy period, he stands up and walks around the bed. She can feel her heart pounding terribly in her chest and she’s still no closer to making a decision.

He lays down on the bed beside her without touching her and when she opens her eyes and rolls onto her side, she sees his eyes are closed. For a moment, she wonders if they both might pretend he is asleep and then she dismisses the idea. This is not what he asked, not really, and, deep down, it’s not what she wants.

She wants to see stars, she wants to see galaxies forming and ripping apart again. She wants him.

She brushes her hair out of her face and leans down, kissing him softly, and watches his eyes flutter open. He doesn’t see anything else, just her, and she is so happy she could probably cry. She won’t. Not now. She kisses him more deeply and shifts on the mattress, straddling his body with her legs.

They continue to kiss for many long minutes, exploring each other’s mouths and the wonderful sensations they can evoke together. They progress to petting and caressing and kissing in other places. Slowly, their positions are reversed. Clara particularly likes when the Doctor kisses her throat and then her neck. She doesn’t know how much time has passed but there is no hurry.

Her body is humming with a pleasant warmth when he slowly enters her, agonizing, ecstatic inch by inch, until she is full and so very lost in his beautiful eyes. There is a look of concentration on his face but his eyes are soft and caring and they touch her in completely different ways. There is desire in them also, but he keeps it well under wraps and she is both touched and eager to draw it out, to feel it burn against her skin and take her alive, writhing and screaming.

She longs to let go and just soar. And then to fall and break, over and over again.

She gasps delicately at his first real thrust and she flutters. Everything in her is fluid, mutable, purring. She is not one thing, she is many things, and he is everything to her. She gasps and groans and arches while he thrusts inside her, slow and steady to begin and then more forcefully. She can barely keep up, but she doesn’t want to, she wants to lose control and break free.

When she comes completely undone, much later, they go together. She breaks, the world breaks, and is born again, blissfully perfect in her eyes. She can only breathe. He holds her and breathes with her and they fall asleep that way.

.

After the first night, there are more nights, and so much ecstasy Clara thinks she must be dreaming only to awaken in the Doctor’s arms come the morning, joyfully assured that it was no dream.

She would not change it for the world.

* * *

4

She is peacefully sleeping in the Doctor’s bed when a sound awakens her. At first, she is sleepily unconcerned and then she realizes she is alone in bed: the Doctor is not with her.

The sound comes again and she sits up like a flash, straining to peer through the dark. She reaches for the candle on the nightstand and strikes a match, hastily dousing the room in warm amber light. The room is empty.

“Clara.”

She leaps from the bed and runs to the door, eyes wide in the alarm. She rips open the door to see the Doctor in the hallway but he isn’t alone. He is carrying someone and she doesn’t look good. She doesn’t even look conscious.

Clara pulls the door closed with a snap and helps the Doctor carry the woman down the corridor. She is terribly thin, all waxy skin and jutting bones, but that doesn’t make it easy.

The Doctor is confused and in pain. “Why are you helping me, Clara?” he gasps and he has to set the unconscious woman down on the floor for a moment. He catches her eyes and waits, a hand pressed to the side of his head as though he has suddenly developed a splitting headache.

“She needs help,” Clara simply says.

“She does,” he agrees. He pulls the woman back into his arms and he doesn’t bring it up again.

Clara leads the way to the TARDIS and he follows without question though she could be leading him anywhere; she could just be double-crossing him for the master. They leave the house and stumble through the near dark for some time. Eventually, they even leave the master’s estate and by then the house lights are burning bright. The master knows they have betrayed him.

They forge on until they come to an abandoned barn and inside the barn is the TARDIS, so very blue and utterly inviting. Clara rushes forward to open the doors and they clamber inside. The Doctor lays the woman on the floor and collapses beside her. He doesn’t say a word about the strange box he has just entered that is somehow bigger on the inside.

Clara is at the console, pressing this, pulling that, inputting this. She cloaks the TARDIS and then fiddles with the scanner and runs a quick scan on the woman. “She’s alive.”

“Good.” The Doctor stays where he is sitting on the floor, his breathing still heavy and too unsteady. Somehow, he looks older than he did just a day ago. He looks up to meet Clara’s eyes with amazing clarity in his gaze. “Are you an alien?”

“Yes.” She steps away from the console, her face somber. “But so are you.” She kneels down and picks up his hands, squeezing them tightly. “I’m sorry, John, but it’s time to say goodbye. We won’t see each other again after this.” She releases his hands and reaches over to take something from his pocket.

“Where are you going?” he asks, still somewhat out of breath and now rather sad. Obviously, he doesn’t want her to go. He doesn’t have any words yet, but she can tell he’s thinking very hard, searching for something that will be meaningful enough, strong enough, to convince her to stay. To stay with him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says softly, feeling her heart break a little for the both of them. “You are.” She places the fob watch in his hands.

He frowns in confusion, looking from the watch to her face.

“This, all of this, is your ship. Your home. I am just a guest.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, John, but it’s true. It’s all true. Please know that I did care for you.” She stands quickly and hurries from the room, leaving him to stare at the watch and make his decision.

He glances across at the woman but she has not stirred. She looks even worse in this light. He looks back to the watch in his hands, and opens it.

.

Clara is sobbing when she hears his voice, and of course it is the Doctor, her Doctor. She brushes the tears from her face hastily and walks back to the door on unsteady legs, navigating around several large multi-colored ottomans and a sofa.

“Clara, she’s an alien!”

“Good.”

“No, I mean she’s a Time Lord!”

“Oh God!” And suddenly it makes sense, everything she didn’t understand before. They have been keeping the woman locked up, using her regenerations as a way to heal the few, favored few, and she is probably at the end of her lives. “Oh God, I’m sorry!”

But the Doctor is beaming, so very happy.

Clara turns away to compose herself better, rearranging her horror into determination, and when she spins back to face the Doctor she is all business. “We’d better get her to the Infirmary.” She marches off and the Doctor hastily follows, still grinning.

Clara’s head just hurt. Everything feels a little topsy-turvy. “Are we traveling, Doctor?”

“Going home, yes!”

Clara moans, rubbing a hand against the back of her neck. “My own bed, at last! My family! And Linda, of course! And work, and bills, and Linda.” She groans again and smiles ever so slowly. “Home.”

“Home,” the Doctor agrees.

Clara scratches her neck absently. She’s convinced that hedge had a serious grudge against her. “I love home.”

“Me, too.”

She turns to look at him and he isn’t smiling anymore. Neither is she. She offers him her hand and he takes it. She is already home.

END


End file.
